


They Are A Contradiction

by rowofstars



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-02
Updated: 2009-09-02
Packaged: 2018-04-18 10:18:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4702400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rowofstars/pseuds/rowofstars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the week 6 prompt at <a class="i-ljuser-profile" href="http://writerinatardis.livejournal.com/profile"><img class="i-ljuser-userhead"/></a><a class="i-ljuser-username" href="http://writerinatardis.livejournal.com/">writerinatardis</a>, which was a lovely photograph.</p>
            </blockquote>





	They Are A Contradiction

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by [](http://anepidemic.livejournal.com/profile)[anepidemic](http://anepidemic.livejournal.com/), who should never doubt how brilliant she is.

They step out of the Tardis into the middle of a white sand beach, hand in hand as always, cool leather and sharp edges next to soft cotton and a bright smile. The warm sun and gentle breeze compliment her, flutter through the hem of her sundress. It makes him feel out of place like lace curtains in a battered old window, paint cracked and peeling. He’s over nine hundred and alien, she’s nineteen and so very human.

He makes himself impressive. He takes her anywhere and everywhere, shows her the end of the Earth and the third moon of Lor where they grow bananas in shades of blue. It makes her laugh, with him and sometimes at him, and occasionally it surprises her into stunned silence and wide-eyed awe.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It’s a fact well known that he is an expert on the art of escaping a sticky situation with nothing more than a winning smile and a sonic screwdriver (and lots of running, but he never mentions that up front). He pretends to know it all, and he does, Time Lord him. Yet, he’s utterly lost when it comes to things like why anyone would ever _voluntarily_ eat a pear, or the cosmic importance of the young blonde asleep in his bed, legs tangled in the dark green sheets.

What he does know with absolute clarity is that the spaces between his fingers seem to be made for hers. Every grin, every bat of her mascara caked eyelashes fills up a little more of the empty space in his soul. It’s a conclusion he comes to one evening when he’s alone, left with nothing but the gentle hum of the Tardis and his own thoughts.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The library at Alexandria could be filled to overflowing with all the words in the all the languages he knows. He works non-homogenous multidimensional differential equations just to give the rest of his brain something to do while he recalibrates the molecular transducer on the Tardis. But there are these moments where he is unable to think of anything but the feel of Rose curled against him.

They lie in the cool grass of some unnamed planet under the purple glow of a plasma storm. Her body is flushed and delicate, warm in every place that touches his, even through her dark jeans and gray hoodie. He sighs and plants a kiss on the top of her head, allowing himself the simple luxury of her presence.

It’s in moments like these he makes his silent confessions. He recites them over and over, words far too romantic and domestic, drifting through his head, felt but always unspoken. There is movement at his side and he tenses, fearing that this is finally the time where he has said them out loud.

There is a hint of a whispered ‘love you,’ which he pretends not to hear. The way her face is pressed to his chest it comes out sounding more like ‘wub,’ but it’s plausible deniability all the same.

A short while later, the storm is over and the only sound he can hear that isn’t the shuffling of wind through the trees is her breathing. The steady rise and fall of her chest assures him she is asleep. Before he gives in to the ache in his back and the numbness in the leg trapped by her thigh, he drops another kiss to her forehead. His response ghosts over her skin, intangible but real.

“Me too.”


End file.
